


A Piece of Silk

by Phoenicia



Category: Bleach
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3741907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenicia/pseuds/Phoenicia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friends and friendship are valuable things. A brief snippet in time with Ukitake Jyuushirou and Kyouraku Shunsui, taking place at any point before the Soul Society arc. Gen-leaning-shippy or shippy-leaning-gen, whichever you prefer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Piece of Silk

Ukitake Jyuushirou takes an abrupt breath and awakens. His eyes feel gummy and gritty, which means he's been asleep for a long time, and even now they don't want to open fully. He is aware of a dark shape beyond him, which stirs at his faint movement and reaches towards what sounds like water. A moment later, rough hands cradle his head, drawing a warm, damp rag over his face and washing it clean, paying special attention to sleepy eyes. He blinks a few times, vision gradually returning, though he doesn't need to see to identify his companion. "Hey." His voice is scratchy in his own ears, hoarse and strained.

"Yo." Kyouraku Shunsui greets him in return, nudging the brim of his hat up with his free hand. "Sleep well?"

It is perhaps this, Ukitake thinks to himself, that defines their long friendship-and-more: Kyouraku is laid-back, so much so that he will not display worry about Ukitake's health without permission, even when the more-unshaven-than-usual face, the tightness around half-lidded eyes, and the bald sobriety tell him the truth: this has been a bad episode. If he is honest with himself, Ukitake must admit that he has no memory of getting to his residence, or being put to bed. The last things which are clear in his mind is them walking together, some sort of silly conversation, then pain, the familiar fire in his lungs, coughing desperately, and blood, lots of it, extremely bright and red against...

"Your kimono," Ukitake breathes, noticing its absence. He is not used to seeing Kyouraku without it. He looks...strange and formal, as if all color around him ceases to exist in its absence, reverting to complete black and white. "I ruined it, didn't I?"

Wide shoulders shrug, and a strong hand comes to rest atop Ukitake's head, tousling his hair with a soft, affectionate touch. "What's a piece of silk compared to a friend? I can always get another kimono." The unspoken implication lingers in the air between them. "I'd ask if you think you can eat, but that's a silly question."

"...you know me too well." Indeed, Ukitake will eat at any time, anything, and in most respectable quantities. He starts to sit up, but Kyouraku's hand catches his shoulder and pats it before standing, the quiet message clear. It is not until he returns with a tray of something - Ukitake doesn't care what it is, but it smells delicious - that pillows are tucked to elevate Ukitake so he may eat.

The soup is spicy and a little briny, tasting of fish. The bread is still warm to the touch, and the tea is sweet with milk. Before he knows it, Ukitake has devoured all of it, silently swearing - as he does after every meal - that it is the best one he has ever had.

Food, though, doesn't dent his fatigue; another sign that, at least for today, the illness is stronger than he is. Others might be discouraged in his place, but Ukitake has known since he was very small that for him each day is a gift and must be used wisely and savored, even if the only savoring one can do is drawing breath and continuing to live.

He doesn't need to say it, though. The tray is whisked away before he can yawn, the extra pillows carefully removed so he can lie down again. After all, this is Kyouraku Shunsui here with him, who carried him piggyback to academy classes on the days he didn't feel well enough to walk, and whom he dragged to class on the days the other was hung over. Together, they have a long history of understanding and devotion, being able to anticipate needs and move to meet them without being asked.

They are quiet for several moments, Ukitake lying still while Kyouraku sits beside him and absently strokes the fine ends of his hair between his fingers. It is relaxing for them both, and many a night has been passed before in just such a way. When Ukitake is right on the edge of sleep, Kyouraku leans down, kissing his forehead and tucking a cloth into his hand. "Just in case," he murmurs, his voice a deep rumble. "Now get some rest so you're not as white as your hair." The thumb that lingers in its path across his cheekbone is callused but tender. Ukitake nods, and Kyouraku smiles _that_  smile, the one that could charm the hardest of hearts. "Feel better for me, Fourteen," he says, rising to his feet and gliding out in a shuffle of dark hakama.

He will be back, Ukitake knows, but only once he is asleep, because Kyouraku understands that wounded pride and excessive fussing are two things that inevitably delay Ukitake's resting. Once out, though, Ukitake sleeps like the dead, and even his pride doesn't mind waking up with Kyouraku keeping watch or lazily sprawled out a few feet from him.

Drifting towards sleep, he fingers the fabric in his hand, noticing it feels smoother to the touch than a normal handkerchief. Cool and soft, it almost glides through his fingers. Ukitake edges one eye open, looking down at the cloth in his palm.

It is silk. White silk...with pink flowers on it. Kimono silk. Carefully, painstakingly unstitched from the whole, cut and hemmed just for him. From a ruined garment, a practical and sentimental use.

 _Shunsui...sometimes you really are impossible,_ Ukitake thinks, closing his fist around the fabric and tucking his hand under his cheek as he settles back into a comfortable position. _This smells like you, you know..._

When Kyouraku Shunsui looks back in on Ukitake Jyuushirou and finds him deeply asleep, a swatch of kimono fabric clutched in one hand and a relaxed, content smile on his face instead of the drawn pallor from before, he smiles in return.

_What's a piece of silk compared to a friend?_

Compared to this one, nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> I unmothballed and liberated this from ff.net for [themorninglark](http://themorninglark.tumblr.com), so please have a sample of my writing from ages ago. OTL
> 
> The rest of me and current fandoms linger over at mienaihane. Come say hi?


End file.
